


Not A Happy Ending

by friends_call_me_wobbly_hands



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional ride, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, NarraChara, no one is happy about this, sad kids, sappy moments included, violence mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friends_call_me_wobbly_hands/pseuds/friends_call_me_wobbly_hands
Summary: Sometimes you can't get what you want, and it's not for the lack of trying. Sometimes you can't go forward, but not because you are not moving. Sometimes you just can't let go. Sometimes you just can't reach your happy ending.





	1. Fire

“Mom”, they call, raising their eyes from the drawing for a moment, “what is there, behind the door in the basement?”

Toriel shivers for a moment, as if those words somehow opened the said door and brought in a current of chilly air.

“Nothing that would interest you, my child”, she says carefully and adjusts the glasses on her nose. “But there are much more monsters there, and the road is dangerous. So it is not worth exploring”.

The human looks up at her, face as blank as always. The fire covers their face with golden spots, making their hair red for a blink. Then they shift a little, so their position – face down on the floor, just next to her armchair, in between her paws and the fireplace – would be more comfortable.

“M-hm”.

“After all, there are even less entertainments there than in the Ruins. I do not think that they put up something new, and there must be hardly any left since the time when…”

“Alright”.

“The barrier is still there, though. Even if you went, you would simply…”

“Okay”.

“And Asgore… he… well. So you see, my child. You are better here, with me, in perfect safety”.

The crayons squeak softly, touching the paper.

“Yeah. I know”.

 

***

 

The fire drones softly just above their head, and warmth urges them to stretch their cold hands towards it. However, that would be rude.

“Yeah, that should make it”, says Sans with a smirk. “Hey, Grillby. Two burgers, then. Use your finest grease”.

The bartender shrugs and disappears behind the fire exit, and the warmth exits with him. The bar dims significantly.

“So”, says Sans immediately, “what do you think about my brother?”

They stare at him, whoopee cushion trick still fresh in their mind. Then they make a show of considering the question for some time.

The answer is predictable, though.

“ _So_ cool”, they say.

“Yeah”, says Sans, smiling. “That’s just what I am saying”.

The bartender comes back, bringing light, warmth and two burgers with him. They sigh contentedly at the change.

“Wanna some topping with that?” asks Sans. “Y’know, to spice up the evening?”

They shrug a bit. They are fairly sure that it is still morning, by the way.

“No”.

“You sure?”

“Yes”.

“Not a human of many words, huh”, says Sans. He pours the bottle of ketchup in himself and smiles. “Well, not that I am saying it's bad. Maybe you just want to save energy. Or feel lazy today. Or just don’t see the meaning in it. Who knows. I’m not here to judge”.

They look at him for a long, long time, as if trying to find the meaning of his words in his face. Then they shrug and go on to their meal.

The burger is strangely cold.

“So”, says Sans, “what do you know about talking flowers?”

 

***

 

The fire burns brighter than ever, painting everything red and gold. It is so hot that you can feel the heat on your cheeks even standing five meters away from it, but it is a nice alternative to the cold wet wind that touches your back.

“So that is it, huh?” asks Undyne, trying to wipe the charred brow with a charred palm. “I guess I will stay with Papyrus from now on”.

“Marshmallows”.

“Huh?”

The human next to her sneezes like a puppy, then squints with a little more slyness than their usual squint contains.

“You can now fry marshmallows. Whenever you want”.

Undyne chuckles and tries to noogie the human, but they slip away – nice dodging skills, yeah.

“The marshmallows are boring as heck… They don’t deserve to be fried on the brave remnants of my house! But if you replace sticks with spears!!! AND add deadly flames!!! AND BRUTALITY!!!!! …then I guess you could fry them here, I guess”.

The human laughs a little, but it’s Undyne who has the last laugh! And so she does, surprise-nooging the little ruffled head of the human. They snort in displease.

“…I guess not all humans are bad, after all! There are some pretty decent ones!”

They make a small funny noise, struggling in her hands.

“Yeah. Plenty”.

 

***

 

They look down the rocky cliff and wonder, is lava made of fire? Or is it just very, very hot earth? They are sure someone explained it to them, but, of course, it was a very long time ago, so they don’t really remember the details.

Or maybe they don’t want to.

Their phone buzzes in their pocket, and they take it out to see the message. Alphys is sure taking time with putting down a new status: she is torn apart between “i am trash trash garbage cutie ;)” and “i hope i don’t mess up this time, haha :)”

They laugh very quietly, but something – maybe the silence around, maybe their thoughts – turn that uncertain laugh into a sigh. They stick their phone right where it belongs and pick on their stick thoughtfully. Its pointy end has already caught fire once, and it's their only one, so they should be more careful. After all, Underground sure can’t boast about its excessive sticks.

You can’t have everything you want, huh?

Their pocket buzzes again. Well, most probably it’s just Alphys again. They don’t check.

The Core hums in the distance, and they know what that means.

Suddenly they remember: lava is not really fire, it is magma that found its way to the surface. And magma is rocks, so hot and pressed that they turned liquid, trapped underneath the earth crust.

They shrug oddly, like they didn’t really want to remember that.

 

***

 

There is fire again, too much of it, all around. It’s good that there are no flowers here, and the ground is really tough, so nothing can be burned.

That is, save for their flesh.

They try to dodge the bullets, but the magic keeps hitting them. Their hair is even curlier from the heat, and their skin is reddish now instead of usual yellowish.

Asgore looms high above them, outlined by light from the barrier and from his fire. His face is dark. Too dark to see anything clearly.

“I don’t want to fight”, they say. They cough and try to wipe their singed hand, but it hurts suddenly, and they realize that it is burned. “Please. There is no need to fight, really”.

Asgore’s breath stops for a second, and his fire hovers unsteadily above his palm. But then it resumes.

“You have killed me enough times”, they say. “Please, stop. I don’t want to fight”.

They dodge the next fireball just in time. The ground is really smooth here; probably from the countless legs stomping it, probably from Asgore’s efforts. It’s just like him, if you think, to level the ground, so there would be no hidden evil puddles or trenches or risings that would make the fight even more unfair that it really is.

The flower in their hair falls down in flames, their bandage dries and can hold on no longer. They really just need their stick, though.

“Please”, they say, lifting it. “Please”, they say, bringing it down for the first time. “ _Please!_ ”

The flower lies on the ground, trampled down and ashy. Asgore looks at it, and his gaze wavers.

“Please, stop!”

The stick goes up and down, steadily, with loud smack! - smack! - smack!

“I don’t want to fight!”

Smack! – goes the stick, hitting the king on his outstretched paw. Smack! – on his chest. Smack! – on his cheek, just below the eye. That last one makes him flinch for the first time.

Up – down, up – down, steadily, accurately. Fireballs scatter around them, but they don’t hit too hard.  
  


“Please, I don’t want to fight!”  
  


Smack! Smack! Smack!  
  


“I don’t want to fight!”  
  


Smack! Smack! Smack!  
  


“ _I don’t want to fight!.._ ”  
  


Smack! Smack! Smack!...


	2. A Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more of a glimpse into the human.

…They catch themselves humming a song: just a couple of simple clingy notes, feeling somehow ancient, polished by hundreds of tongues lulling it over and over.

They wonder where it came from.

 

***

 

In Waterfall, they feel the raindrops hit the same places on their neck and head. Their hair becomes wet and curly, then soaked and straight. They frown, like always.

A statue they pass frowns at them too.

They take an umbrella.

The drops of luminescent water drum softly on their umbrella, as they go on and on, forward and forward. Tsk tsk tsk, goes the rain on tarpaulin. Like it was chiding them a bit, but not really meaning it. Tsk tsk, they try with their own tongue, and they smile a bit.

There is no rhythm, not really, but they try to find it anyway: the raindrops, and the footsteps, and bubbling, and splashing, and their own quiet clatter. Eventually, they fall into one. It feels familiar, just slightly at first; even more when they start to move. And then they remember something.

They return and bring the statue an umbrella too, and the melody emerging makes them close their eyes in content.

They walk away, the echo of the melody still in their ears. It is sweet, and nice, and calming.

But they prefer their own rhythm.

And so they go, dancing to it: across the puddles, and to the Monster Kid, and then away from them, and between Undyne’s spears, and then eventually back. Their steps make drums, their clatter - cymbals; their heartbeat gets the solo. And the rain adds the second voice.

It is nice, actually.

It feels like the first nice thing in forever.

 

***

 

Snowdin has its own tunes, most of them screaming of festivity and lightheartedness. Snow crunches beneath their soles. Monsters chirp all around, painstakingly smiling. The human squints at them.

One melody always stands out, though; the faint sing-song of the nice cream cart.

Those notes shoot through the air, more quick and effective than all of the magic bullets combined, and when they strike their ears, the human perks up and lets out a laugh that sounds more like the battle cry of a hungry caveman.

The Nice Cream Guy stands no chance against them.

They follow the melody away, away from the town and into the forest, climbing and dancing across the ice, making a snowman happy and making their own happy snowman – the latter is not alive enough to do anything but smile, but they are content with what is.

They twist and twirl across the snowed in land. They sure feel brave, climbing those icy slopes, and patient, when they wait in ambush while a Jerry passes by, and just, and kind, and perseverant, and… integrated? Sure they are. No so sure about staying true to themselves, though.

But, when they stamp a few gold coins onto the cart and fidget in place until the snack finally comes, they do not question themselves much. They squeak in delight like a proper kid should do. They bite into the Nice Cream and get their sweater dirty right away, like a proper kid should do. The Nice Cream Guy smiles down at them, and the human grins back with lips smudged in chocolate, looking like just a kid. A kid who shouldn’t be thinking about past and future too much.

Maybe that is why, out of all the cheery and bright and catchy tunes of Snowdin, the only song they carry out is the song of the ice cream cart.

They carry it far, far away, farther than anyone could imagine. Together with chocolate stains on their sweater and the grin on their face and the snowman piece.

That means that at least one person is happy in the end.

 

***

 

Toriel is humming something with a happy smile.

They raise their head from their drawing, listening. Then they hastily start striking the paper with a crayon, so that their adoptive mother is not disturbed by the sudden silence.

The boss monster is singing something frivolous and light-hearted. Her tail twitches, she stomps her foot just a little, and the movements of the spoon in a bowl fall into the rhythm.

They press their palm to their mouth to keep that nasty snort in. Oh, how they yearn for a camera right now!

Toriel starts singing louder, carried away; the dance is now more pronounced. Drops fly from the frantically moving spoon, and the contents of the bowl threaten to dip over any second. Good riddance, the human thinks dryly, since it is going to be snail lasagna or something.

After a particularly loud aria they forget to pretend to draw.

Toriel gets to the end of the song, and suddenly the human remembers it. This time, they cannot suppress a snicker and a flush. Yeah. The song _is_ frivolous. More than that.

Their mother freezes in place, eyes wide, at once aware that she is not alone.

“Oh. My. My apologies, I did not realize I was singing aloud… I am still not completely used to having someone else here”, she says before thinking twice, and then, suddenly understanding the implications of her words, turns back to the soon-to-be lasagna.

They sigh and start drawing again, for real this time.

Then, they smile.

They start off where Toriel left, and they sing it till the very last note.

 

***

 

The human hums, sitting on the sofa, determined to get to the very last note. They bounce their legs impatiently, and the melody they sing is light-hearted and frivolous. It sounds so nicely in the room almost devoid from furniture, with white shades and wooden floors, smelling cool and fresh and new.

They are not sure where they know that melody from.

“How do you like it? Our new home?” somebody asks, peeking into the open door. Somebody familiar. Somebody that is a friend.

The shades move with the passing wind.

Beams of yellow light come through the windows.

 

***

 

Beams of yellow light come through the windows.

 

_One second, everything is golden. The other, everything is red._

 

Their footsteps echo in the endless hall; the sound flies from column to column, caught with no chance to leave, ever.

They have that in common, the human thinks.

 

_One second, they are afraid. The other, they have long forgot what fear feels like._

 

They lick their dry lips and try to hum to dispel something big looming over them.

 

_One second, there is nothing but silence._

They jerk and try to quicken up the pace, but then they fall into the same rhythm, the one they have made up _(will make up)_ a long time ago _(much, much later)_. Their footsteps make the drums.

_The other, the sound of bells is deafening._

Their heartbeat is cymbals. It is loud, too, almost overshadowing everything else. And yet…

_That second passes, and the silence hits their ears worse than the loudest noise could._

 

Silence. Silence. Silence. It is everywhere; their heartbeat barely touches it.

They clench their fingers around the wood – _one second slick and polished – the other rough and knotty_ \- they start humming louder, in spite of themselves.

Their steps sound like a solemn clock. The notes rise like frightened birds up to the ceiling, fling themselves from column to column, beat onto the windows but never, never leave. Never.

_Never ever._

Despite everything, the human keeps humming, even though their hands feel foreign and dead on the wood.

 

_One second their hands are –_

_the other, they are –_

 

their little song falls quieter and quieter, shaking and covering closer to them –

 

_one second, they are humming –_

_the other, the song is different –_

_then there is nothing but the howling wind -_

 

they drag on a note, trying to send it flying, but instead it shivers and breaks on their lips and falls to their feet in shatters -

 

_a black figure steps out from the shadows –_

 

 

 

the song dies.


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh-huh.

“Please, go upstairs”, Toriel says, trying to avoid their eyes even when looking straight at them. Maybe she is seeing someone else again; not quite their face, not quite their eyes.

This time, they nod.

They go upstairs and lie down in the bed which feels just like they remember it to be, warm and a bit too hard under their back. They lie down, waiting, until they feel a crash reverberating in the bed and the walls and the air. They turn off the lights and go to sleep.

When they dream a voice whispering things about future and determination, they simply roll over and squint harder.

This time, they decide to stay.

 

***

 

They learn how to cook, together, peeling carrots over the drain with some white fur stuck in it, and Toriel fusses over them when they take a knife for the first time. They try to not cut their fingers, more for her sake than for their own. They have to stand on a chair to reach the counter, and even then they have to balance on tiptoes.

They have all the puzzles memorized, but they still fall through sometimes. It doesn’t hurt at all. The leaves grow and fall again, covering the ground in a soft rustling mass.

“Do you want to hear some snail facts, my child?” Toriel says, settling down in her armchair after dinner.

They nod decisively, picking the same crayons from the same drawers and eating the same pie one more time.

Days pass, forward and almost never backwards. It becomes a little colder, then a little warmer. The crayons slowly shorten in their fingers. They make friends with some monsters, the weakest and shyest ones. They still fall through the puzzles, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not. The leaves on the black tree grow and fall down, again and again and again.

“Would you maybe like a story, my child?” Toriel asks from her armchair. “Or a snail fact, perhaps?”

They nod, which she cannot translate properly this time, so she starts with a story and finishes with more snails. They don’t really mind. They have heard all the facts the monsterkind could ever gather about slugs, but they do not mind. She has never asked them for their name, but they do not mind.

They have seen it all, but they do not mind.

Days pass, and their clothes no longer fit them, and Toriel has to arm herself with a needle for the first time, but then their shirts and trousers become a patchwork, and she reluctantly buys some new ones. New pairs of shoes join the old shoebox in their room. The crayons are gone, and the pencils that came after them are gone too, and the pens are enjoying their last days. They have read all the books and seen all the streets and solved all the puzzles. They still keep stepping on the wrong stones when going through.

“I think we can turn on to something more serious, my child”, Toriel says a little bit desperately. They can bake now, just like her, and sew just like her, and garden and hunt the bugs just like her, and they have learnt every thing from every book she could offer them. “I believe you are about as educated as a child of your age should be. What would you like to study next?”

It is not like they would ever need that knowledge, that education, and she understands it – they think she understands it – but they still say: “Architecture, maybe”, and Toriel sighs with relief and starts saying something about their future before stopping herself.

They both know they won’t ever have a future here, but it doesn’t stop them.

Architecture is a thing that you can study even in Home, so they plough through hours of lectures delivered by a particularly sentient Froggit. They walk around the streets, studying the styles of roofs and balconies. They draw, with pens and pencils evaporating faster than ever. They sit some exams while Toriel is biting her nails outside. Of course they pass, and all the Froggits and Whimsuns and Moldsmalls cheer for them together with Toriel. They even receive a diploma: a piece of red paper where Toriel has written herself “Architecture”. There is no name on it, because even after all those years she has never ever asked for their name.

The leaves fall and grow and fall and grow and fall and grow and fall again.

They are tall now. They do not need a chair anymore when cooking. Their clothes are too small for them again, and they buy themselves a few larger outfits, and then they outgrow them as well. They feel like they have outgrown the whole Home, and their old bedroom, and the books on the shelves, and Toriel herself. They feel like she feels this way, too.

She carries herself differently now, as if suddenly too aware of her size. Her eyes become dim, then sad, then apologetic, then desperate. Sometimes they think they can hear her crying, softly and quietly, all alone in her bedroom; too quiet to hear if you are not stuck at her door, knowing what to listen for.

They have never spoken about the world outside, about the destroyed exit; they have never seen the door even, so they do not know if it is really impassable. Maybe that is the reason Toriel looks at them this way. Maybe, if they put up a fight and whined about it, she would feel better about grounding them forever.

The leaves grow. The leaves fall.

They do not notice when they stop falling through the puzzles.

Toriel suggests maybe finding a significant other. They try to court a Migosp, and all the Home watches them as they shyly tuck into café corners and back seats, together. The neighbors are friendly and accepting, and some even start wrapping wedding gifts. It doesn’t play out, though, because with all the eyes on them Migosp always acts like a total jerk.

They try it with a Whimsun then, but it flies away in tears before they can finish their first flirtatious line. They feel a little bit rejected, until a few weeks later they receive a long, grammatically impeccable message, asking when their first date will happen. They make arrangements and they wait for an hour at the place, but the Whimsun never comes, if you do not count desperate wailing in a far corner as participating in a date.

Then they try it with a Froggit, but they feel like he cannot understand them at all, so they break up. The neighbors are all in tears.

Then they try it with a Moldsmall, but it never ends well, due to the lack of brains in one of the partners.

Then they try to flirt with Toriel again, but it is simply awkward.

So they stay single, and find a new house, and they still visit Toriel, but she keeps trying to avoid their eyes, just like all those years ago. And so they take longer and longer breaks between visits, and eventually they turn completely to phone conversations. The monsters do not gawk at them anymore when they go for groceries in pink and white pajamas. The leaves keep falling.

There are no new humans on the golden flowerbed.

They stop growing at some point. They find the first grey hair, the first wrinkles on their face. They always volunteer to babysit when their neighbors want to go out, and the kids find them a little bit weird, but they tolerate each other nonetheless.

They still bake pies, sometimes, and hunt bugs, even rarer.

There is one occasion, one and only, when a new house is to be built. The whole community is dizzy with delight when the human starts the project. Every single monster believes it to be its duty to show them its gratitude and pride. When it’s done, every single monster tells them what an important, a big job they’ve done. They are such a gift to the society, absolutely irreplaceable.

The leaves keep falling.

Toriel comes visiting when they are so sick that they cannot move much. She looks at them, and they smile at her never changing face, but their own lips are too dry and skin is too thin. She averts her eyes to hide the guilt.

 

***

 

The last human is dying in their old bed in Home, next to a shoebox with shoes that no longer fit them, next to a mother whose presence no longer soothes them, but the smell of pie and the toughness of the mattress under their back are just the same.

They smile a little.

“I am so sorry, my child”, Toriel says in a small voice. She holds on to their hand, so tiny and weak in her paws. “I will miss you forever. I love you, I love you so much”.

“I know”, they say.

“I have found a nice place”, she continues after making sure they do not want to say anything else. “In the very first room, near the flowerbed. You have always liked to garden there…”

“It’s okay”, they say.

Toriel shifts, and her eyes are watery.

“Maybe there is something else you want? To hear a story, or eat some pie…”

“Take my soul to Asgore”, they say.

She chokes on her words, and she has to make several attempts to utter: “What?”

“Free all monsters. See the sun”, they say, still smiling.

Toriel shakes her head.

“They do not deserve it – They do _not_ ”, she says firmly, but then melts into a forlorn smile. “I am sorry”.

They sigh wearily. Of course.

“I want to ask you something”, says Toriel after a pause. “…Were you ever happy here, with me? Were you ever… glad that you had stayed?”

They think hard, and they nod with what little Determination they have left, but before Toriel has time to brighten up, they tug onto her fingers and ask: “Were _you_?”

That question seems to knock the ground from beneath her. “I do not- Of course! I was more than happy to have you around, my… child…”

They struggle to look at her when a realization hits her, and they keep smiling. But the darkness swells and the light dies out, and the leaves fall down and down and turn to dust on their worn blankets. They can hear their rustle: dead and regretful. Or maybe those are Toriel’s tears on their skin, they can’t tell.

“What… what is your name, my child?” Toriel asks, her hand slipping away, her voice a faraway whisper, not more meaningful than the sound of dead leaves.

They smile and blow out the light.

 

***

 

“Please, go upstairs”, Toriel says.

The leaves have returned on the branches again and the days have stormed backwards, all the way till the beginning. The books are back on their shelves, the crayons are sharp once more, and the shoebox has never been added to.

“Please”, she says, still desperate, even though their hands are strong again and their skin is youthful and thick.

The diploma is never cut out from red paper; what for? The house is back to shambles. There is no second grave among the golden flowers.

“Please”.

 

This time, they do not.


End file.
